


Glimpsing Helheim from Across the Styx

by jerobitaille



Series: Darkness Will Turn to Light [1]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Agron's snark remains, Episode: s03e09 The Dead and the Dying, Gap Filler, M/M, the Roman camp is a bad place for rebel generals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerobitaille/pseuds/jerobitaille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron remains defiant despite Caesar's best efforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glimpsing Helheim from Across the Styx

**Author's Note:**

> These characters aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them.
> 
> Those two side by side cuts on Agron's right shoulder blade (you see them as he walks away from Spartacus & Gannicus at the beginning of Victory) just would not leave me alone. Those massive shoulder guards of his would have protected the area and they're going the wrong way for them to have been left by an overzealous Roman cutting away his armour. This is the result of idly wondering a bit too much about how they got there.

**Glimpsing Helheim from Across the Styx**

 

The hands tugging at his boots are not the gentle teasing ones he is come to know over the years and long for in past weeks. Agron grunts as a sudden brisk pull yanks his body across the rocky ground. The motion causes something sharp to dig into his back and the wound on his side to reopen. The gash begins bleeding sluggishly, warm blood trailing over his skin. He is jostled further as his now bare foot drops back to the ground.

 

“N’sr.”

 

Agron cannot stop the cry that bubbles past his lips at the sudden hard pressure against the sword wound. He attempts to curl around the pain, but his body is sluggish and disinclined to obey commands. All he manages is a slight jerk of his limbs. Opening his eyes proves equally difficult until a second hard jab against the bleeding cut is enough of a shock to force his eyes open and draw forth another pained gasp.

 

An armored figure kneels at his side, hunched over his torso. Enough sunlight remains to clearly show the soldier is Roman, right down to the fucking plumed helmet. The soldier leans over further and Agron is certain he suffered a blow to the head after being cut down from behind because—

 

“Duro?”

 

His brother’s beloved face does not belong framed by a Roman helmet, void of all familiar expressions.

 

The sneer is utterly out of place—as is the blow that dazes him a second time. Agron’s head snaps to the side and though his gaze falls from Duro’s face for only a moment, when he looks again it is a wholly unfamiliar face that scowls down at him.

 

“This one is still alive!”

 

With the Roman’s attention momentarily diverted, Agron desperately runs his hands over the ground, searching out his fallen sword or any other weapon that happens to be in grasp. He will not die on his back at the hands of some Roman shit who’s barely even sprouted a beard.

 

Just as his fingers brush against what feels suspiciously like the shaft of a spear, a heavy foot steps down on his hand, pressing it down into the bloody ground. When Agron refuses release weapon, more pressure is applied and he has to bite hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. He is a warrior from east of the Rhine, like his fathers before him. So many of them gave their blood and lives to protect what they held dear. Agron would die, weapon in hand, so that he is able to stand alongside them in the afterlife.

 

“Well, if it isn’t Spartacus’ mongrel,” an all too familiar voice sneers.

 

Squinting, Agron turns his head towards the newcomer on his left. The sun stands behind him, obscuring much of his face, but Agron knows his identity regardless. Gaius Julius Caesar, a treacherous Roman cunt if ever there was one.

 

“I look forward to this.”

 

Agron does not feel the blow that sends him once again into darkness.

 

***

 

_“Wake up!”_

 

Agron gasps awake, Duro’s words rattling within his skull. The left side of his head throbs where it was struck, vision hindered by the resulting swelling. Even with an aching skull and unreliable sight, it takes but a moment for him to determine his fate. Not left for dead or killed outright as expected, but bound between two posts, kneeling upon the ground. All around him are Roman voices, conceited fucks who believe themselves gods this night because one of their number managed to slay the Undefeated Gaul.

 

“No longer undefeated, the Gallic shit.”

 

“He was parted from head easily as any other.”

 

For all Crixus’ many faults, he stood as a brother and Agron will mourn him as such. Along with countless others, no doubt, if the jovial mood around him is any indication. Drunken fools who were only granted their victory because one among them was able to land a lucky strike in Crixus’ not insurmountable defenses. Agron has forever been surprised that it had taken so long since the damned fool insisted on throwing his arms wide whenever he jumped from a height. And Crixus did so enjoy jumping down on his enemies from above like a demon birthed in nightmares.

 

Agron finds himself thanking gods he has not believed in since first feeling the weight of Roman chains around his neck for keeping Nasir safely at Spartacus’ side. Each day that Nasir yet draws breath is a good day. One that Agron would gladly give his life to preserve. He only wishes he had not been such a jealous ass and spent so many of their final weeks separated by his needless anger. He should have believed Nasir from the first, knowing in his heart that Nasir loved him and would never betray him. Duro would have called him an idiot and attempted to beat some sense into him. Made him realize what he knew deep down under all his imagined hurts.

 

The bulk of his weight has been resting on his wrists and shoulders for far too long, causing them to ache. Surreptitiously as possible, Agron sets his knees more securely upon the ground. And though his neck is beginning to throb, Agron leaves his head hanging forward to further maintain the appearance of unconsciousness. He would prefer to get a better sense of what’s going on in the camp and what role he is to play in the coming hours. Agron has his suspicions, but he would rather have them confirmed before allowing his return to awareness to become known.

 

“So you are still of this world.”

 

Agron huffs out an exhausted laugh and struggles to lift his head. “Once again the gods fuck me in the ass.”

 

A dozen or so paces away, alone next to a campfire, sits the whoreson Caesar. Now that the ruse of Lysiscus has ended, Caesar appears every inch the pompous Roman cunt, clean-shaven and wearing his fine armor. The tribune leans against a supply chest, outstretched legs crossed at the ankles and a cup of wine held loosely in his right hand.

 

As always, his lips are twisted into that ever-present smirk—the one Agron longs to wipe from his face permanently.

 

“I do not know of your savage gods, but request it of Tiberius and I am certain he will be only too happy to oblige.”

 

Though the bitterness that tinges Caesar’s words is unexpected, Agron has no desire to trace its origins. These Roman shits can devour each other for all he cares. Rid the world of their filth without the cost of any other innocent lives. Agron takes small comfort from the knowledge that off those rebels who remain, the ones he loves most still draw breath. Agron would see it remain so for as long as possible.

 

“Arrogant ass that he is, the boy claims not only the death of Crixus for himself, but your defeat as well. Greatest soldier in the whole of Crassus’ legions if you listen to his pompous ramblings.”

 

Agron shifts minutely, swallowing down the rage that threatens to engulf him. Long experience and more than a few rough chastisements have taught him that he does not always speak wisely when angered. “I do not give a shit what honours you Romans heap upon yourselves. You would claim fucking creation of the entire world as a decree made by your damned senate.”

 

“Hardly a sympathetic view, but not entirely inaccurate,” Caesar concedes before swallowing a mouthful of wine. He then holds the cup out towards Agron, impudent brow arched. “Where are my manners.... It is substandard shit, yet certainly better than anything you lot can scrounge up.”

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Agron sneers, fists clenching with the desire to throw the wine back into the deceiver’s face.

 

Caesar shrugs and down the rest of his cup. “Do not later claim us ungracious hosts for I did offer and I cannot guarantee when you will be presented with food and drink again.”

 

Agron’s stomach twists uncomfortably at the mention of food, but he remains silent. He is not fool enough to believe he is long for this world. His position within the rebel forces is known, so he expects there will be attempts to pry information from him before he is ultimately killed. They have done the same countless times with captive Roman soldiers. Only his end will likely be far more drawn out than anything Spartacus would have allowed.

 

Inevitable though his fate seems to be, Agron has no intention of making the task easy for the Romans. He intends to fight them until he draws his final breath. He will die as a warrior in conviction if not wholly in action and be permitted to stand alongside Duro and those friends and family who have perished in battle. The thought of being denied a reunion with his brother in the afterlife sends an icy chill down Agron’s spine. Duro fell sword in hand, taking many Roman lives with him as sacrifice. Agron fears that his end will be of little note and condemn him to an eternity alongside the old and sick rather than to dine eternally at Woden’s table.

 

“I would have your attention a while longer, German,” Caesar snaps, setting aside his cup. He climbs slowly to his feet and stalks over in a way Agron thinks is meant to be menacing. Not that any Roman has mastered the art to the extent to which they believe. It often puts Agron in mind of a child playing at such things.

 

“Then make your presence worthwhile, you cowardly fuck.”

 

A withering, put upon look from Nasir would be far more intimidating than the one now cast by Caesar. Agron quickly shakes his head, banishing such thoughts. He will keep Nasir separate from what he knows will follow. There will be time enough later to call Nasir to mind, when Caesar and the other cunts that populate this camp will not have opportunity to tarnish his memories. Agron is determined that he will meet his end with Nasir’s name on his lips and his face before his eyes.

 

At this moment, with Caesar crouched before him, knife in hand, Agron will admit to an uneasy twinge trailing down his spine. It lasts for but a moment, a trick of the moon and firelight glinting upon steel, nothing more. Agron refuses to be cowed by Caesar’s silent threat, even bound as he is. The man made fool of them and would have taken Spartacus’ life, both actions Agron still owes payment of vengeance for.

 

“An old wound that could very well have robbed you of life,” Caesar muses, tapping the point of his knife against the raised scar less than a handspan from Agron’s heart. “And one but newly made that can yet prove fatal.”

 

Sheer force of will permits Agron to turn what would be a scream of pain into a hollow duplicate of the brittle laughter that seems a very part of Gannicus’ every breath as Caesar presses the knife to the edge of the barely scabbed over sword wound. “Is tha-that all you can… muster? Ugh… N-no wonder you foll-follow a boy.”

 

“Strong words from a mongrel who cannot wipe shit from ass without first receiving the great Spartacus’ command.”

 

“Better that than to be fucked from behi—ahh!”

 

The blade moves with such speed that Agron cannot prepare himself. Caesar has abandoned the already existing wound on his side in order to carve out a new one upon his chest. A likely mirror to the one received so many years ago when he and Duro had been captured by the Romans. Agron clamps his teeth down on his cheek to stem any further cries. He will not give Caesar the pleasure. The wound does not feel overly deep. It bleeds at a sluggish pace, throbbing in time with the newly reopened battle injury.

 

“Fucking cock eating Roan cunt!” Agron snarls, the words spat into Caesar’s grinning face. He strains against the ropes binding him in place, eager to wipe the smug expression from Caesar’s lips.

 

“Much more appealing. I do so prefer symmetry.” Caesar’s eyes are wide, wild, and Agron feels that small shiver of fear threaten to return. “Now, I have questions that I would see answered. And I would have them answered truthfully.”

 

The heel of his hand ground into the fresh gash serves to emphasize Caesar’s words.

 

“Go fuck a goat,” Agron hisses, lips twisting in the mockery of a grin.

 

Caesar’s responding smirk is far too cheerful for Agron’s liking. “I was hoping you would chose the difficult path.”

 

Before Agron can think to form a responding taunt, blunt fingers dig into the ragged edge of Caesar’s snakebite and send a searing jolt of pain through his body. He tries to pull away, twisting his body in an attempt to dislodge Caesar’s fingers, but the Roman moves in close, crowding him, and prevents Agron from offering proper resistance. Agron’s already ineffective struggles are brought up short as Caesar wraps his arm around Agron’s back and presses the sharp edge of that same knife against his right shoulder blade. With Caesar so much closer now, Agron lurches forward in hopes of bodily knocking the piss-swilling cunt away. The blade proves its sharpness by slicing into his shoulder twice in rapid succession, the second wound nearly on top of the first, as Caesar fumbles to maintain his intimidating position.

 

All the while those damned fingers pull at the lower edge of the gash.

 

“What is Spartacus’ intended route?” Caesar murmurs, breath hot against Agron’s cheek. His hand at last abandons the freely weeping wound to wrap around Agron’s neck, pushing his head back in order to prevent any biting attack Agron would make. “The truth, if you please.”

 

Agron strains his lips in a bloody smile and says nothing.

 

***

 

The blood makes odd, intricate patterns in the dirt below him. Streaks and swirls interrupted by the occasional blob of dark blood. Blood from his torn cheek wells in his mouth once again, so Agron spits it out, adding to the twisted lines already upon the ground. For the briefest of moments, Agron is certain those strands of blood and spit spell out a word. A heavy boot tramps through and obscures the delicate calligraphy, destroying what his hazy mind recognizes as his brother’s chicken scratch.

 

_Fool._

 

Even from the afterlife, Duro mocks him and the choices that have taken him so far from his heart. Never to be returned to it again in this life.

 

Blood slick fingers latch onto his hair and pull his head back at a painful angle, forcing him to once again gaze upon the cunt who would kill him by inches in hopes of gaining information on Spartacus’ movements. Agron gathers another mouthful of bloody saliva and hurls it in Caesar’s face. The Roman’s outraged cry cannot help but coax a tired smile to Agron’s lips. It is nearly worth the heavy blow to his right shoulder that threatens to wrench the joint from place.

 

“Shit-swilling German fuck!”

 

Agron rocks back, slumping as far as his bonds will allow when Caesar shoves him away. The Roman spits out a string of curses that impresses even him as he wipes the bloody spittle from his face. Agron knows he is playing a risky game—infuriating Caesar as he is—but his death is an inevitability at this point so there is little need for caution. Over the course of several days, his goals have narrowed down to simply enduring whatever interrogations Caesar concocts without inadvertently betraying Spartacus and the other rebels. He will not be as those spineless Roman fucks who yield after a few minor hurts.

 

“We shall see how disagreeable you remain with another to loosen your tongue,” Caesar threatens as a malicious grin overtakes his face.

 

After Caesar stalks away, barking out orders to one of the nearby soldiers, motion in front of the nearby campfire draws his attention. Once his eyes focus on just what it is he is looking at, Agron surges upwards, toes digging into the dirt for added leverage. Agron swallows the cry that rises immediately to his lips even as his eyes desperately trace the figure’s every movement.

 

Duro stands as he did when Agron last saw him living on the sands of Batiatus’ ludus, skin stained with dirt and blood. Yet Agron can only see the ever increasing burbling of dark blood on his chest. The wound that should have taken his own life so long ago. Duro had gifted him with additional days and the opportunity to find his soul’s mate, and the only repayment he had received was a quickly murmured prayer as his cloak-shrouded body was tumbled from the cliff’s edge. Agron can still recall his screaming protests as Spartacus insisted they leave the villa only with what valuables they could carry. The dead were given little more than the dignity of forever being free from Roman hands. There had been no time for proper honours for any of their fallen, and while many had protested, none were enduring the loss of a true brother and had soon fallen prey to the heady joy of freedom, leaving Agron as lone unheard protester. Now Duro returns to torment him.

 

Or, if Agron is truly blessed, to welcome him home.

 

“Brother....” Agron moans when his brother’s shade continues to stare silently at him.

 

Duro’s mouth opens as though to form words, but he falls from sight as the damned tribune once again darkens his sight. At Caesar’s side stands a second man, a large smirking brute, with blood already on his hands. He purposefully cracks his knuckles, the sound of each drop echoing uncommonly loud to Agron’s ears.

 

“Lucius, we require words from the German. See them given breath.”

 

Agron tenses, braced for the blow that is sure to follow, only to be stopped short as the Romans part ways.

 

Duro remains standing before the fire, finger raised to his lips, imploring silence.

 

So silent Agron remains in the face of persistent questions until his vision fades to darkness.

 

***

 

A mouthful of putrid, stagnant water and the ensuring shower is a much preferable way to wake than from the bite of steel, though only by the barest of margins. Agron jerks back against the post he has been bound to for the past day, spewing out the foul water as he straightens. The water shocks him into alertness, yet not full awareness. Agron is still attempting to shake the cobwebs from his mind when the Roman cock who stands watch over the prisoners latches onto his hair and backhands him hard across the face. Agron catches himself before he topples sideways, his answering snarl catching momentarily at the sight of the pompous peacocks strutting towards him in all their finery.

 

Caesar, the sadistic cunt, grins with a smugness that has Agron instinctively lunging forward. He would gladly tear that fool’s tongue from his head and laugh while doing so if given the opportunity. A quick punch halts Agron and sends him reeling back against the post.

 

“Agron,” Caesar smirks, leaning towards Crassus as he makes falsely cheerful introductions. “From the lands east of the Rhine.”

 

The two talk over him, reminding Agron far too much of the stage at that long ago slave auction in Capua. Impending death aside, this repetition of the past is far bleaker as Duro has not appeared at his side since Agron was banished to the huddle of rebel prisoners. Agron has mumbled many silent prayers that his brother return to him, to stand alongside him at his death as he had Duro at his own passing. As yet his prayers remain unanswered.

 

“Only to rude curse, Imperator,” the mindless legionnaire reports, snapping to attention like a child’s play soldier.

 

It is such a comical attempt at portraying a man with actual cock and dropped balls, that Agron cannot help laughing in the posturing prick’s face. “There is yet more upon tongue, you fucking cunt.”

 

The resulting punch is of little consequence when compared to the amusement gained at the knowledge that he can still so easily rile his captors. Agron’s laughter only continues when Caesar begins rambling about his own imagined stock of gladiators.

 

“Nail him to cross.”

 

Whatever else Crassus says is lost to the sudden roar that fills Agron’s ears. The vague notion of his impending death is made all too real now that his sentence has been named. Crucifixion. It really should not surprise him given Crassus’ apparent fondness for the act.

 

Too many days without food and only the barest amounts of water steal much of the strength from his fight as he is dragged across the yard. Agron digs his heels in, vainly attempting to pull his arms free to no avail. He wants to die on his feet, fighting as Duro had until the very end. Tears of frustration gather in his eyes as his struggles are all but ignored.

 

With little else left to focus on except his own impending execution, Agron glares at Caesar as the smirking Roman follows in his wake. “I shall yet have your fucking head.”

 

There is an odd sense of ceremony as one of the legionnaires hands Caesar the mallet and nail. Caesar pauses for a moment as though taking stock of their weight before he strides to Agron’s left hand. Agron tracks his every movement, turning his head fully when Caesar crouches down at the end of the wooden beam.

 

“An impressive feat for one who will never again grasp sword.”

 

For one very long moment, Agron can only stare at Caesar in confusion. His words were far too deliberate, too specific. The sharp press of the nail to the centre of his palm makes Caesar’s intentions suddenly obvious. This will be no standard crucifixion. Caesar has elected to make it personal and in doing so will deny Agron a proper afterlife. Neither Woden nor Freyja will select him to stand alongside warriors past if he is forever unable to bear arms.

 

_“Be strong.”_

 

Duro’s shade seems to speak directly into his ear while a warm breeze blows hot against his cheek. Agron clenches his teeth, steeling himself for what is to come. There is no avoiding it. Clenching his fists would only prolong the event and have the Romans believing him weak. He is from the lands east of the Rhine and made of sterner stuff than—

 

A scream tears itself from his throat, his entire body gone rigid in pain and shock. Jeers and laughter, the concussive pounding of the mallets again and again and again are all Agron can hear. One then the other, driving the thick nails deep into the wood as though there was no flesh and bone to hinder their path.

 

_“Endure, brother. It is not yet your time.”_

Agron prefers the earlier silence to once again disappointing his little brother. Duro had spent their childhood believing him invincible, capable of great feats simply because he willed it so. And though Agron has never wanted to let him down, in this instance he fears it is inevitable.

 

The sight of the nail protruding from his palm is unnatural. Agron tries to bend his fingers only to be brought up short by the blinding pain that results. Pain that becomes magnified a thousand times over as a handful of Romans begin shifting and lifting the post he’s now permanently bound to. The swaying jerks only continue to wrench his hands further, graying his vision around the edges. Agron can hear the smug rumblings of the Romans moving around just out of his sight. Some inflated talk about Spartacus, as though those over confident fucks have any hope of defeating him when so many others before have failed abysmally. Their own loss to Crassus comes down to ego. That damned Gaul and his fucking bitch... Agron was a fool for taking up their cause, for fleeing from his heart. From Nasir.

 

_“You will see him again, brother.”_

 

Agron would laugh in his brother’s face were his whole body not thrumming in agony. Duro had the habit of being an overly optimistic fool in life, a trait that has apparently followed him into the afterlife. Nasir is lost to him forever now, except in whatever memories he can conjure in his mind’s eye while he yet draws breath. Even should Agron be permitted a glorious afterlife, he doubts his fierce Syrian will find his way to Valhalla’s golden halls—Nasir’s penchant for rude German curses notwithstanding.

 

It is difficult to tell when exactly the general throb in his shoulders threatens to overcome to sharp ache in his hands. There is no block of wood or shelf for him to rest his feet on, so Agron scrabbles, bare feet desperately pressing against the wooden post, to push himself up. Not indefinitely, just long enough to take some of the pressure off his shoulders for a brief moment. The jolting shock as that precarious grip slips is worse than when they had first lifted him up. His shoulders wrench, his hands slip....

 

Nasir appears before him, a frown marring his features and creasing his brows as he clasps a hand around Agron’s ankle. His thumb lightly stroking muddy flesh in soothing circles. A ghost of a touch that is gone too soon when an incessant fucking gnat bites repeatedly at his stomach.

 

“.... see purpose in returning this one. What use will Spartacus have for a half-dead mongrel that has lost its bite?”

 

The gnat Caesar prodding once again with that damned knife.

 

“I would have this warning sent to walk about the rebel camp if exchange is agreed upon. Let all who would dare take arms against us see what comes from challenging Rome. That there is no honour for them in this life or the next.”

 

Agron struggles to lift his head, eager to give voice to the curses that linger upon his tongue, only to once again be brought up short by the sight of beloved brother. Duro stands between the two Roman asses, dressed for battle in familiar furs and armour as he had been that fateful day when their tribe had faced the invading legions. That day, Agron had only been able to see the little brother playing at being a warrior. Now he is the man who had died in his arms on the bloody sands of the ludus, proud and smug all at once.

 

Agron’s body lurches as the beam he is bound to rises from its mooring, momentarily whiting out his vision. When he can see clearly again, Duro has vanished back to halls of Valhalla and his richly deserved place at Woden’s table.

 

The Roman’s manhandle him as though he were a side of beef and not a man still drawing breath. Agron is shoved roughly onto his knees and forced onto his back by the weight of the beam. He nearly loses the meager contents of his stomach several times as uncaring hands pry him loose from the beam, but swallows it back down along with the cries that threaten with each movement of his mangled hands.

 

As the blackness threatens the edges of his vision once again, Agron takes comfort from the spectre who has taken Duro’s place. Nasir still waits for him, worry faded from his features as he crouches at his side, replaced by instead by a soft smile. Agron believes with everything in him that he can feel Nasir’s gentle fingers pushing his sweat and blood encrusted hair back from his forehead before sliding down to cup his cheek.

 

_“They will not wrest you from my arms.”_

 

The conviction in Nasir’s plea spurs Agron’s every footstep as he trudges from the Roman camp back to his lover’s waiting embrace.


End file.
